It Wasn't Going to Be Easy
by Psalm 136
Summary: Next in Seven Years' Honor. Scott finds that his office has been untouched, and memories are brought up. He also must make amends with a student, before both break down. Oneshot. Jott


**Sorry it's been taking me so long, guys. I needed a break from everything, but I'M FINALLY OUT OF SCHOOL FOR THE SUMMER! Anyway, here is the fourth installment in the Seven Years' Honor series.**

**Disclaimer: This is depressing. I don't own Scott or X-Men.**

The trees that had once whispered in the evening were quietly standing at attention, their bark frozen by the cold that had descended upon Xavier's School, seemingly overnight. Frost clung to the grass, and the clouds were almost a cheerful white. All of the students, and most of the teachers, were outside, and the younger ones were nagging Ororo Munroe for snow. She merely grinned at them and shook her head, retreating into Logan's protective half-embrace.

It was a picture of perfection, and Scott looked down at the scene with self-disgust churning in his stomach. He had casually glanced out of the window, having heard the familiar sound of teenagers screaming at each other from across the lawn. He looked down at Professor Xavier who laughed merrily at something an unfamiliar man said, a grin on his face. Scott jerked suddenly, as if burnt, and turned away. He shuddered, his knees nearly giving out, but he quickly recovered, trying to forget what he had just seen.

He had been apart of many days like the one he had just seen. He had chased his students around, thrown snowballs, shoved icy slush down _her_ shirt, and gotten some ice down his pants. He had had moments of mercy and sent his students outside to play in the snow. He had been a teacher here, a very alive part of the everyday routine. Now, he wasn't sure what he was. He was confused, and it made his head hurt worse than the withdrawals he was experiencing from the lack of alcohol.

The very thought of the withdrawals made him want to throw up or fall down or something. He had been walking around for hours, staying as far away as he could from the kitchen. He knew there was no alcohol there, but if he saw the lack thereof, he would go crazy and run to the nearest bar.

He found himself wandering through the halls, somehow winding up in the teachers' hall, where all of the personal offices were located. He stopped quickly, going back to the hated picture of happiness outside. He mentally counted, and then let out a deep breath. Unless there was another math teacher with a stick up their anal passages, he could freely walk about. He sniffed at the idea. He liked his unofficial label as the math teacher with the stick up… well, there.

Scott was nearly sick at the thought. All he was now was a drug addict, alcoholic and a sex-crazed idiot. He rubbed his face, shaking his head. He didn't want to think about that.

He continued down the hallway, tilting his head to the side in bemusement. The name and the department tag had been taken off of the door, but his office was still there. His fingers fondly traced the remains of an old prank, courtesy of Bobby and John and April Fools' day. They had done a wonderful spray paint job, and had also done a great job cleaning the pool for the next three weeks.

He smirked at the memory, but turned his mind back to the present. He looked at the door, and rolled his eyes at the fact that doors seemed to have a special significance for him. He reached for the knob, turning it, and opened the door, taking a step in. He took a deep breath; no one had been in this room in years. It had been closed up, probably cleaned every so often, but no one had changed it. His papers were still there, the immaculately neat desk was untouched. If he had been wearing his old khaki slacks and a polo, he wouldn't have been able to guess something had changed. He still had the same sunglasses. He looked relatively the same, and yet, nothing was the same.

He walked casually over to the desk, his fingers touching the organized piles of reference books and lost student textbooks. The desk organizer, filled with his pens, pencils and infamous red markers, still stood proudly, perched between the pile of yet-to-be-graded essays and graded ones. His heart suddenly stopped.

There had only ever been three pictures on his desk, displayed proudly in beautiful frames. The first was of the professor and himself on Christmas, the first year Scott had been at the school. The second was of Ororo, Warren, and Hank in front of the X-jet. The third was of _them_. He picked it up, his throat closing up as tears formed in his eyes.

"_You two look great!" The young photographer grinned eagerly at them, shaking Scott's hand enthusiastically and giving Jean a polite hug. His hands were nearly trembling in excitement and anticipation. No one ever found out his story, but he was a mutant. You think the cotton candy blue hair was his choice? He would have chosen lightning-blonde, but with these things, you hardly got a choice. No one, not even Jean or Scott, knew he was a mutant, but finally, someone had come to get their pictures taken by him. _

_He was still young, not even twenty-two years old, and he struggling to make ends meet with his photography. He thought, looking at the beautiful couple the two made, of his parents. He'd seen their engagement and wedding pictures, and that had made him want to become a photographer. He'd been eleven at the time. Now, here he was, ten years old, and he wanted to make a portrait so beautiful that the cute kid these two were sure to have would be moved to the art of photography._

_The photographer bustled about the room as Scott and Jean watched, amused. He dragged a beige couch into the center of the black backdrop. He scratched his head, ducking through the charming mess his photography room had become (he was part of a big photography chain, sure enough, but that didn't mean he made a good amount of money), and found a beauty: a candleholder. It was like a long-necked lamp, except with candles. The sight of it made him grin._

_He placed the candleholder by the sofa, and was suddenly frustrated. He turned down the lights that illuminated the spot, and made a note on a pad of paper to add a slight blur to the pictures. Not enough to make the couple blurred out, but just enough to give a creamy glow and to make the candlelight seem to be apart of them._

"_H'okay, sir, you said you wanted something more personal, and less just the two of you sitting there?" He asked, turning to the man he knew to be Scott Summers. _

"_Yes." Curt nod. Even voice._

_The photographer was intimidated. The glasses were scary. He was about to ask him to take them off for a more personal look, but bit down on his tongue. He wasn't stupid. He had a tendency to be immature, but he wasn't stupid. This man was a mutant, and it was more than likely the lady was a mutant, possibly a telepath. _

"_Okay, then." The photographer led Scott over to the sofa and had him sit upright on the left side. "Miss, if you could…" He paused, looking over the beautiful woman, trying to decide what would make the picture the most captivating. "Ah." He aided her in sliding her jacket off, leaving her in a black skirt and thin sweater. He instructed her to roll her sleeves up to the elbow and then sit on the couch._

"_Alright, miss, lay down and put your head on his lap." He waited for her to do so, and then changed his mind. "Actually, put the bottom of your neck on the armrest, and…" He saw her do so, her body lounging across her fiancé's lap. "Now, Mr. Summers, put your left arm underneath her back and your right across her stomach, as if you're about to pull her close." He nodded, getting more excited as the picture came together. "Miss.. er, Dr. Grey," He blushed at his own mistake. "Bend the knee of your leg closest to the back of the sofa, and look towards the camera." _

_The photographer slid over to his position behind his beloved camera. He grinned, thankful that his smile was hidden. It was hard to explain why he was so eager to take pictures, and he didn't like it when people thought he was creepy. Apparently everyone was supposed to be cynical and heartless nowadays. No-can-do for this photographer. He was passionate about what he did, and he was glad to be able to add to someone's happiness. _

"_Mr. Summers, look down at her and smile, Dr. Grey, just look naturally beautiful." He tilted his body so they could see him and he flashed them a joking smile. He straightened back up, a sudden sense of peace rushing over him._

_Yeah, this picture would be beautiful._

The photographer had been almost like a child in excitement, and Scott hadn't known if they should go with that guy. _She_ had laughed at his worries and assured him that all would be okay. He believed her, and he was glad he did. The kid had been amazing, and had created a beautiful picture. It had brought them great joy at the time, and if he wasn't mistaken, with the state of his office, no one had even touched _their_ room. The large version of this picture was probably still hanging there.

"God damn it!" Scott suddenly raged, throwing the frame with deadly force towards the wall. It shattered on impact. He breathed heavily, covering his face with his hands.

Someone knocked on the open door, and Scott jumped, startled. He turned around, his heart jumping into his throat.

"Uh, hey, Mr. Summers." Robert Drake rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "The professor said you were back, but I had to… you know…" Though Robert 'Bobby' Drake had taken up the reins for the X-Men within two years of Scott's departure, he would always feel like a student in the face of his teacher. He had become a man in the seven years without his teacher (friend? Father?), but he was terrified of seeing his mentor again. It wasn't that he wasn't angry, or that he didn't wish to beat him down, but he had to get through the shock to express any other emotion.

"Yeah." Scott nodded, running a hand through his dark brown hair that laid flat on his head. "Look, Robert,"

Robert cut him off. "Call me Bobby. 'Robert' from you is just weird." He offered a small smile.

Scott returned the small smile with one of this own. "Alright. Bobby, I want to apologize to you. I pushed all of my responsibilities on you when I left, and you were too young. Part of me knew that you would have to take on everything I left behind, and I'm sorry for that. But Ororo's been telling me some things that you've been up to lately, and I'm proud of you. It probably doesn't mean much, but I am proud of you."

Bobby stood transfixed by the words he'd been waiting to hear for the past seven years. All of the wounds he'd been hiding were opened, and he was struck by a wave of that strange, mixed emotions. He nodded, bowing his head. He pressed his fingers onto the inside side of his eyes, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to spill out.

It was strange to both men that so much emotion was flowing. It was slightly clichéd, considering everything that had transpired. One would have expected a heated battle of words or fists, but both men were too old, emotionally, to even think of dealing with the situation with anything less than mature behavior. The air crackled with unspoken words, unexpressed emotions, and it would be okay. Amends had been made.

"Thank you." Bobby murmured. "I've been waiting for that. It means a lot."

"No problem, kid." Scott punched his shoulder slightly. "So, are we cool?"

"Yeah, I think so." He admitted. "It might be awhile until we're totally okay, but for now, we're cool."

Switching back into caring-teacher mode, Scott placed a hand on his protégé's shoulder. "If at any time I'm screwing up again, or you need to say something to me, anything, I don't care what it is, then…"

Bobby grinned. "Yeah. Thanks."

"You wanna sit? I hear congratulations are in order?" Scott plopped down behind his desk, watching Bobby as he sat down on the dusty, creaky chair.

"Oh, thanks." Bobby grinned.

"How did you ask her?"

The day wore on, filled with questions and answers to the past seven years. They laughed about mishaps in the mansion, and sat in somber silence at Scott's stories of what he had seen. Neither was sure of the future of their friendship, but at least a bridge had been forged.


End file.
